


Signs and Wonders

by lucythemermaid



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Armie Hammer - Freeform, Bisexuality, CMBYN - Freeform, Call me by your name, Canon Gay Relationship, Coming Out, Emotional Elio bless him, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Future, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Monologue, Oliver - Freeform, Oliver is out, Oral Sex, Post-Book, Reunion, Reunion Sex, Sex, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, andre aciman, elio perlman - Freeform, elio x oliver - Freeform, gay relationship, reunited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 20:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13959384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythemermaid/pseuds/lucythemermaid
Summary: 20 + years after Summer of '83, Elio goes to visit Oliver in New York. Oliver is newly divorced, a Professor and is trying to rebuild his life after the breakdown of his marriage. Over the years, the two have remained in contact with the occasional meetings. The divorce has come as a relief to Oliver, a mutual decision with the later realisation of just how different his life could have been had he followed his heart and been true to himself all those years before.For the first time in his life, Oliver is living as his authentic self. Free from judgement and societal pressure, he's finally being true to who he is and living with the guilt of what he'd lost.In a new apartment in Uptown New York, he's in his mid-forties, a father and now-single. The love of his life has come to visit and perhaps this reunion has brought the opportunity at a second chance for him and Elio, if he's honest and vulnerable enough to apologise for all those years apart (and the courage to live as an openly queer man.)





	1. Save You From Your Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!  
> Finally I got my invite to join A03, and finally I can give something back to the CMBYN fandom! This will *hopefully* be a full-length work, I'm still adding to it, but it's currently 2 chapters. I'm terrible at summaries, but this is basically your typical reunion fic. Picturing Oliver at around 45, and Elio at 38. This draws inspiration from the film (of course, I pictured the characters as Armie and Timmy's brilliant portrayals) but also references Aciman's literary masterpiece.  
> The title comes from Sufjan Stevens' 'The Only Thing' lyrics, which if you haven't heard or only listened to his CMBYN soundtrack stuff, I reccommend listening to more of him because he's wonderful. Each chapter also contains Stevens' lyrics, to pay tribute to his work with CMBYN (particularly Mystery of Love, gah <3)  
> I hope you enjoy this! I myself, in brief summary, am studying Creative Writing at degree level. So fingers crossed this is decent and does the film and book justice!  
> Thank you so much for reading. :o) My tumblr is wantedyoutoknow.

 

 

 

>   
>  _Should I tear my eyes out now, before I see too much?_  
>  _Should I tear my arms out now, I wanna feel your touch._
> 
> ** \- Sufjan Stevens - The Only Thing **
> 
>  

 

 

“I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

He looked at me with the same level of intensity that used to piss me off. Where his expression is on the verge of emotionless, his mouth a straight line. His eyebrows furrowed. The only thing that was easy to read, for myself at least, were his eyes. Today, they were calm, smiling even. A smile that hadn’t made it to his lips yet. He was waiting for my reaction.

“Of course,” I smiled, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’ve heard the coffee here is great.”

That set him off. He chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“It’s no match on Mafalda’s.”

I paused, trying to assess his tone. I struggled to detect his sarcasm.

 “You still remember the taste of the coffee?” I said, hesitantly. Bringing up his visits to B always tightened my chest.

“Best part of the summer of ’83,” he smirked, moving his hands into his pockets. He looked nervous and tried to hide it. As if I _can’t_ read him like an open book. As if I _don't_ know that the moment he mentions that summer regret consumes him and he feels compelled to change the subject.

“Wow,” I smirked, managing to hold his eye which was now looking past me. “Here’s me thinking you appreciated the eggs most.”

“I never quite mastered those.”

I scoffed. “You were hopeless.”

We chuckled simultaneously. Oliver’s laugh was still the most genuine I’ve heard, impossible to fake. You’d know because he never laughs out of politeness. Yes, he’ll force a smile, but his laughter is _meant._ It meets his eyes, his dimples prominent and his grin infectious. Five years since we last saw one another and his laughter reconciles any hesitation, any initial fears I have that maybe he’s changed. Maybe things will be different this time around. But the only thing that’s different with the man facing me is his hairline’s receded further and he’s wearing a shirt that’s a bit too tight. Over twenty years on and the eighties’ fashions were still his best choices. _I was bias, the billowy shirt I could never part with, still in a drawer of mine._

Now, he’s wearing jeans and Converse to be _down with the kids_. I can’t help but smirk to myself.        

                                                            ---

We walk side by side, me over-thinking the gap between us. His hands are now out of his pockets, and I catch sight of his ring-finger, ring-less since last time I saw him. He said in his letters about this _bad news_ , but to see the finger that was once the home to a band of commitment, now skinnier towards the knuckle, is something I can’t help but stare at. I looked away, but he’d already noticed.

“You’ve never been discreet in your staring.” He smirked to himself as we walk down the High Street towards what I hope will be a coffee shop. The flight was too long, and I needed caffeine.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I moved my hair from my eyes, the heat here is more still than B. No breeze, so my curly mop sticks to my forehead too obviously to hide.

“It’s when you want to ask but stop yourself.”

“I have nothing to ask about,” My tone was initially defensive, but I paused and took a softer approach.  “Um, how are you doing?”

“The divorce?” He said the word effortlessly. I’m not sure what I was expecting, whether he’d avoid the subject. Whether he’d be struggling with it.

“I’m sorry,” I began, stopping our walk to face him once more. We moved to the side of the street, out of the way of those walking hurriedly to their day jobs.

 _No, you’re not_. The edge of his mouth tweaking upwards. _I’m humouring him._

“Thank you,” he smiled as if he’s not sure how else to go about the conversation. “Honestly, I’m doing way better than I thought I would. The boys, they’re practically adults now and I think they saw it coming.”

I didn’t ask why. Question after question raced through my mind, it was making my head spin. He said in his letter they hadn’t been happy for a while, and that he’d seen it coming himself. That it was mutual. That he was embracing the fresh start.

            I didn’t know what else to say, the whole conversation felt unnecessary when he’d already _broken the news_ months ago. He invited me over, to stay a few days. To see his new apartment, show me around, catch up properly. I’d booked a hotel room, but he was insistent I cancel it, said it stupid to pay out for that when he had a spare room himself. That, and we’d stay up so late talking over a bottle of wine that staying elsewhere was unnecessary. _Seriously, Elio. You’ve paid enough for your flight here, and we have too much to catch up on._ We’d email occasionally, but Oliver was Oliver and he always preferred the hand-written stuff. I’d known that long enough.

_Grow up, I’ll see you at mid-_

He interrupted my thought process. Twenty years had passed and it surprised me how unexpectedly something could transport me back _. Back to that summer, back to seventeen and twenty four._

“Anyway, coffee?” he smiled eagerly, trying to disguise a yawn. He works too hard, you can see it in his eyes.

 It sickened me, the effect that smile had on me. It was embarrassing, and I looked to the floor immediately. I felt ashamed how child-like, how stupid I felt. I prayed he didn’t pick up on my flushed cheeks.

The afternoon passed too quickly. He showed me his favourite parts of the city. The park that was bigger than I’d envisaged, the shopping complex where he insisted I got some Converse for myself. _My younger self would’ve read into that too much, see it that we’d got some kind of connection. That he wanted us to match._ But my sandals’ soles were falling apart, and Oliver got me a 10 percent discount just by sparking up conversation with the store’s owner. The man amazed me, how effortlessly he could engage with strangers. Charismatic Oliver. _Muvi-star, Oliver_ , my Mother had always said.

I insisted I cooked us dinner, making use of the kitchen which was surprisingly spacious for an apartment. The apartment was fairly minimalistic. I’d never seen a space, aside from his office at the University, that was _Oliver’s. In B, it was always my room but with Oliver’s smell._ My last visit was at his family home, over-shadowed by floral prints picked out by his wife, and the quantity of family photos and souvenirs from family holidays were suffocating. Here, the space was entirely his own. Only a few frames lined the walls, which held his Doctorate certificates and a couple of awards for books he’d written, that I wish I recognised. I’d missed out on all his big achievements and an uncomfortable pain attacked my chest. He was so modest. He’d never mentioned this acclaim, but it didn’t surprise me in the slightest. The man was talented, equally as intelligent as my father was, but never acknowledged it himself.

We ate slowly, talking like always about anything and everything. He asked me about work, I complained about work. I asked him about his job, his students, how he’s finding living alone.

“How about single life, how’s that going?” I joked amongst the mouthfuls of spaghetti.

I saw him look up out the corner of my eye but my vision remained elsewhere, taking in the nic-nacs of the apartment, the ornaments his Mother had left for him, the photographs of his sons.

“Very quiet, but nice. I feel I’ve had to teach myself how to be one person again,” he paused, in deep thought, as if to rehearse in his head how to phrase it. He’d never spoken about this aloud before now. “But in the best way, I think. It’s like learning how to be in your own head. Not having someone else there to tell you what you’re thinking, to criticise it.”

“Did she do that a lot?”

“Sometimes. She’d tell me how I was feeling, would say I didn’t open up enough.”

This wasn’t news to me. Oliver was closeted, sheltered. I felt a sense of honour that he could, and still did, open up to me in this way.

“And there’s no one else since?” I can’t help but ask. I prayed the question sounded casual with no meaning behind it, not too invasive,

He put his cutlery down quicker than the regular motion; the sound startling me. I looked up from my plate and he looked at me. I struggled to decode what his expression meant. I was about to fill the silence, mutter something to make joke of it, but he beat me to it.

“Well, it depends what you mean by that.”

He poured himself another glass of wine. It didn’t feel my place to ask what he meant. Oliver, forever talking in metaphors and ambiguity. There I was, seventeen again, re-evaluating every single thing the man fucking said.

“Want some more?” I asked, getting up from the table. My appetite had gone. I scraped the remainders of the spaghetti, now looking inedible from my nervous hacking through it, into the bin and felt his eyes on my back. He was humouring me, enjoying my nervousness. _Cocky bastard._

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“You’re changing the subject on purpose. Don’t even try to deny it.”

He had his cocky tone on, the tone that used to piss me off. As if he not only knew what I was thinking but didn’t want to be the one to answer. _If you know what I’m thinking, Oliver, say something. Don’t make me embarrass myself for your satisfaction._ I didn’t meet his gaze, I couldn’t. Instead, I picked up a photo-frame close to me on the kitchen counter. Oliver, a few years previously, surrounded by palm trees. He’s squinting, blinded by the sun, and his arms are around two teenage boys.

“They ask after you, you know.” he began, he too scraping the remainders of his food into the bin. _Mafalda would’ve killed us had we done that back then._

“Do they?” I tried to hide the surprise in my voice. I’d only visited the family home once. Both because of time passing by so unexpectedly between Oliver and I, and that I avoided returning after that one visit. Not only was it the most awkward meal I’d ever experienced, it brought back the suffocating desperation of Summer ’83. The goodbye, the others not knowing, the lying. Oliver being the family man, me being the friend he hadn’t seen for several years. Others silently observing, questioning why we still keep in contact if he’d come to stay with my family all those years ago. The boys trying to suss me out.

“Occasionally, yes. I think they’d always _known._ As much as I and others want to think, children know their parents better than we realise. They’re not oblivious to everything,” he smirked, the smile not meeting his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“If they asked, what would you have said?” I sipped my wine, feeling my lips turn upwards in satisfaction as they met the glass. The power dynamic had turned, instead I felt in control. This had always been a rare thing with us. Not that it ever felt a competition, more that I never felt at his level. He was a blank canvas, emotionless to many, difficult to read. I said too much at the best of times, the wrong things, and spent the rest of the time regretting and re-living the ridiculous things that had come out of my mouth.

“I’m not sure, because I don’t know all the answers myself,” I felt comfortable enough to meet his gaze. Both of us now sat in the arm chairs opposite one another. It felt more relaxed, less intense. “I suppose I do question how different things would have been, how much of it was the wrong place at the wrong time. But I do try not to live in regret.”

I very nearly spat out my wine. _If you don’t regret anything then why are we still here Oliver? What kind of friendship are we trying to progress, decades later? How do you look back on that summer without remorse?_

He didn’t react to my response, his gaze was elsewhere, deep in thought. Before I backed out or second-guessed myself, I stretched out and kicked his leg. Startled, he looked back at me, eyebrows raised humorously.

“Wow,” he laughed, putting down his wine on the table beside us. Oliver does everything with intent, purposefully. He put the wine glass down carefully. He lifted his arm slowly to readjust his hair, perhaps in effort to disguise the ever-receding hairline. “What was that for?”

“You keep drifting off. Has no one ever told you that’s kind of rude, _American_?”

He spluttered, amused by my change in tone. His smile had remained permanently embossed on his face for the past five minutes, his dimples prominent which enhanced the lines of his cheeks and under his eyes. Besides the few wrinkles and pigmentation from too much sun, he’d aged well. _Too_ well. It frustrated me because I wished, more than anything, I didn’t still see him _that way._

“Oh, I’m sorry,” He stood up. “ _Later._ ”

I spluttered, knocking my glass which, thankfully, was empty. I grabbed his arm playfully. His skin, hard but warm against my finger-tips made me flinch, hopefully subtle enough for him not to notice. I let go, got up so I was facing him and shoved his shoulder. It wasn’t as forceful as I’d hoped but he’d always been taller, stronger out of the two of us. I locked eyes with him, keeping a foot’s distance between us. His eyes were wide, a grin plastered like a child’s disproportionate drawing, across his face. I doubt he’d laughed this much in a long time.

“You don’t regret, anything?” I gulped, ruining the relaxed tone and regretting it instantly. I sounded foolish. I’d spent years trying to prove to him that I was at his level, that this new and improved Elio was an older, wiser version of who he’d met all those years ago.

“I didn’t say that, I said I try not to,” he placed his palm on my shoulder, a touch I couldn’t decide the meaning of. Affection or reassurance, brotherly or romantic. _Are we strangers now, Oliver? Do you still know me? If you still know me, tell me, talk to me. You owe me that much, you bastard._

“Wrong place, wrong time, right?” I repeated his words, some explanation he’d never used before. Maybe he had been contemplating it, us, our past more thoroughly, more recently, than I’d realised. With his hand still on my shoulder, I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Mm,” he murmured, letting go of me to get another bottle of wine.

I couldn’t stop myself. If it all backfired I could get the next flight home in the morning. _I’ll apologise Oliver, and I’ll be scarce. You can continue this new life of yours, free from marriage and commitments. You can find yourself without me getting in the way._

“What would you have done differently?” I asked after a moment’s silence.

He had bent down to reach the fridge. The kitchen’s island covered in paperwork and his laptop, obstructed our eye contact. Perhaps this was working in my favour, for seeing his expression, contemplating my question, would have tightened my chest further. I waited for him to re-emerge, to quit hiding from me and make use of the opportunity that decades had summoned. _Quit being a coward._

He returned from behind the island, the apartment layout keeping him at a comfortable distance from his interrogator.

He gulped, contemplating his choice of words. “Been less afraid of my parents, less afraid of myself.”

I understood those feelings. Time really had played its part. B was an isolated space, my parents’ villa was safe and free from prejudice, free from the _real world._

Before I had chance to respond, he unexpectedly continued. It came out rapidly, some incoherent, free-falling speech that he’d been rehearsing in anticipation, but had never been performed.

“Perhaps I’d never have left B, continued working with your Father. Found work there, continued my studies as an exchange student. Who knows,” he said all this rhythmically, like it wasn’t spontaneous, but he’d thoroughly mapped it out. The alternative route. The make-belief scenario. “I don’t regret my marriage, it taught me a lot. I raised my boys, had a family. I’d never regret that.”

I nodded in understanding. I didn’t want to interrupt, in fear that he’d stop his somewhat-monologue. Instead, I sat on the edge of the arm chair, watching, listening. He’s usually so conversational, relies on a back-forth formation, eager for a response. Never did he ever have so much of his own thoughts to express.

“I guess I wonder, no, _I know_ I could’ve had that, had better, with someone else. Had I been less afraid. Done what I wanted, told my parents to sod off a bit more.” He chuckled to himself, nervously. He looked up at me, the two of us and the silence. The little light, only aided by the twilight through the blinds, struggled to alleviate the tense atmosphere. I wanted to get up and flick a lamp on, do something to _lighten_ the whole thing.

“Someone else?” I murmured, in what was almost inaudible. I couldn’t help myself.

“I’m a fool,” he muttered, the bottle of wine in his grasp a bit too tightly. Holding onto a clutch. “I never said enough, our timeline stretched out with short meetings. Asking the same questions, filling in the gaps that should never have been there. I should’ve said more, Elio, and I didn’t because I was afraid. I know my Father, he’d have ruined me if he’d known. But that shouldn’t have stopped me.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I gulped to nourish my throat, dry from the wine and short of breath. _Am I dreaming, Oliver? Is this some kind of joke?_

“Maybe things happen for a reason, I don’t know,” he lifted his ring-finger, bare and no different to the rest, up to me and smirked, rolling his eyes. “Maybe it’s a chance to start-over.”

“Maybe,” I forced a smile, unsure of what to say, what to do; what not to say, what not to do. It felt too warm in here, I undid my blazer and inhaled through my nose as subtly as I could.

“I never said it, never could. It wasn’t fair, never the right thing. But I suppose it never felt necessary, sometimes words aren’t.”

He was talking ambiguously, and the wine had gone to my head. I shook my head at him to lighten the mood, rolling my eyes theatrically.

“Said what?”

“I love you, Elio,” he gulped. I hadn’t noticed how much closer he was stood from me. He paused to take the glass out of my hand, to minimise any distractions in the way of his revelation. “Always have. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

I couldn’t process all of this, I didn’t expect it. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to look weak, foolish, fall to his knees as if life’s purpose had finally come to me. But I didn’t want to waste the moment either. Maybe I’d had too much wine, maybe he was fooling around and any minute he was going to burst into laughter, come clean about his big theatrical performance. But I met his gaze to find him stern, his lips straight, his eyes glazed. I’d never seen him look so vulnerable. I felt like the spotlight was on me and I didn’t know how to bridge the gap, both physically and mentally, that was growing by the second.

I stood up slowly from my seat, consciously, not to look too keen. _Was this why he invited me here? Did he want me to fall back in his arms at the snap of his fingers? Oliver, I worship you and you know that. Please don’t play me._

I shook my head, feeling his eyes studying me. Waiting for me to do something, say something.

I reached out tentatively, my finger-tips tracing his jaw-bone. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days; his stubble lightly tickled my skin. I cupped his cheek, that felt so familiar but so new. So accessible, it felt alien without having second-guesses or reservations this time around. His eyes were closed, I hadn’t noticed he’d shut them, but it felt less intimidating that way. I wanted to stroke his eyelids, but I restrained, wanting to treasure every second, no rushing. Embrace every inch of him in elongated speed. My mouth inches from his, his breath traced my lips in anticipation. He was breathing heavily, his face tilting into my grasp, my thumb tracing the lines of his face. Some that I’d always known, some I was encountering for the first time.

“Elio,” I whispered, breathlessly. Saying my own name effortlessly, against his lips, flooded my body’s entirety with instant relief. I breathed out heavily in alleviation, into his mouth. Shared air, shared human functions. Easing the tightness of my chest, synchronised every irregular beat of my heart.

“Come home to me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Since I've Memorized Your Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio panics with the fear of history repeating, this being a one-off thing and Oliver walking out on him again. Amidst the tears, Elio is honest and explains just how much it broke him all those years ago and how fearful he is to let his guard down again.  
> Also romantic, reunion sex, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio is a bit of a anxious mess. Oliver's confession of wanting a fresh start, a second-chance at the two of them, terrifies Elio. As much as, of course, this is what he's always wanted, it all feels too good to be true.  
> I don't think any TWs apply besides panic attack symptoms and that's about it. I hope my sex scene writing isn't too cringy! Maybe's it's too much, maybe it's too subtle. I'm not sure. Let me know! :o)

 

 

> _And when you crochet, I feel mesmerized and proud._
> 
> _And I would say I love you, but saying it out loud is hard._
> 
> ** \- Sufjan Stevens - Futile Devices **
> 
>  
> 
> I’d lost track of how much wine we’d drank. I’d lost track of what time it was. It could’ve been 8pm, or 2am. Everything felt hazy, but at the same time illuminated by colour. Illuminated by him.
> 
> I didn’t care. I tried not to, at least. Paranoia was creeping at the very back of my mind, to keep my guard up, to remember that I leave in a few days. _That we’re not young-adults anymore, horny and self-absorbed._ That doing this, whatever we were doing, we can’t rewrite. But the rest of me, amidst the blurry haze of red wine and the unfamiliarity of the pristine New York apartment, couldn’t feel more certain.
> 
> His hands, as if synchronised as a part of some routine, were in the belt-loops of my jeans. He was walking backwards, I knew this from the jolt and ‘ow’ that came from his lips as he crashed into a side-table. My senses were on red-alert; my eyes still shut, anticipating where his lips would be next. I’d _almost_ forgotten how tender he was. Yes, I’d slept with women, but they weren’t even slightly comparable. Oliver was so gentle, lightly tracing with the very tips of his fingers, every freckle of my skin. Tenderly he traced the veins of my forearms, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of my being. It made me smirk just how backwards it felt, like we were working in reverse. Re-learning each other. The very first time, summer of ’83, was so rushed, so desperate. _Let me rip your clothes off. You’ll kill me if you stop._ But _this._ This was slow, tender, cautious. He wanted to absorb me as his very own, re-align our bodies into one. Fill in the gaps, the spaces, that time had so unnecessarily formed.
> 
> He was guiding me, the palm of his hand now covering my vision. Walking together we made it to the bedroom. Thankfully, being an apartment, we didn’t have to attempt stairs whilst being attached to one another.
> 
> I wanted to explore. Look at his bookshelves, take in where he’d put things. What I recognised and what I’d never seen. Hunt out the postcard he’d taken from my room all those years ago and swore he’d never throw out. Take in the space that was entirely his own. But the second my head turned to engage with my whereabouts, he shook his own playfully, rolling his eyes. We were sat facing each other, both our shirts identically unbuttoned.
> 
> “Nice to know I’m the centre of attention here,” he murmured sarcastically with a playful smile, tilting my head back to face him. The fact of the matter was I hadn’t learnt to play it cool so to speak in the years that had passed. I felt just as clueless as I did at seventeen, which at this point made matters worse. I wanted to prove myself, prove I’d matured and was on his level now. Nothing between us. I also kept avoiding eye contact to stop myself from staring at him. In the dimmed light, intensified by the grey interior, his eyes glimmered. His Star of David now visible, hanging around the neck my lips had greeted moments before.
> 
> “Oh, I’m _sorry._ ” I smirked, trying to sound casual, confident. Looking at the empty space behind him because meeting his gaze felt _too much_. I felt overwhelmed. Emotionally exasperated. Clueless. He caught on instantly.
> 
> “Hey, hey,” he said, stroking my eyelids tentatively with his thumb. I hadn’t realised I’d shut them. I hadn’t realised how short of breath I was either, like my lungs were constrained by some kind of barrier that I couldn’t combat. “What’s the matter?” His voice was a mix of concern and panic. He cupped my left cheek tenderly, which I nestled into automatically. How effortless it all felt, almost too much so, given the circumstances.
> 
> “Nothing, nothing,” I murmured, shaking my head. My voice felt raptured, which frustrated me further. I couldn’t string words together, couldn’t explain how much, too much, I felt. Like this was going to be a mistake? Scared? Nervous? Emotional? _Stupid._ “Just… feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
> 
> “We don’t need to do anything, if you don’t want to,” His lips traced my neck, the warmth of his breath forming goose bumps. Kind Oliver, courteous Oliver. _Does this make you happy?_ It felt like de-javu, a flashback. So much had changed, but so much was familiar.
> 
> I grabbed his face desperately with both hands, pulling him on top of me. His body felt no different, just as warm, strong. Safe. I traced his lips with my tongue. He didn’t respond.
> 
> “Elio.” he murmured my name. I’d missed how much depth his voice gave it.  His diction, his precision, it gave it life. Meaning. He spoke my name like he meant it. I’d never knew that were a thing before him. His tone was serious, startling me.
> 
> “Mm?”
> 
> “Look at me,” he pleaded. “Talk to me.”
> 
> He lifted me up from the mattress effortlessly, sitting me into his lap. I tried kissing his neck which made him shudder against my touch. A moan escaped his mouth. He felt like routine once more; I knew his weak spots, the areas that make him catch his breath. My fingers grabbed at his shirt in desperation to reveal his skin. _Make it go away, make him stop talking. If I straddle him maybe he’ll shut up._
> 
>  “Stop it, _stop_.” He emphasised it the second-time round, lifting my face up so I had to meet his gaze. I hadn’t caught the tears in time, hadn’t held it together as well as I’d hoped and had done the times I’d played this scene in my head. This second chance, new opportunity. Instead, my cheeks were damp, my chest felt suffocated and I was struggling to verbalise anything.
> 
> “I ju-st,” I stammered. It was my time to talk, fair was fair. He’d said more to me, been the most honest, most vulnerable these past couple of hours than he’d done in the twenty-odd years we’d collated. “I’m terrified of losing you. I can’t go through that again, it took me years to heal from the first time you left.”
> 
>  That was no exaggeration and the look he gave me relieved me. He knew that was true because he’d felt it himself. Married because he had to, to please his parents, to please society. He lived a lie to please other people and for the first time Oliver was being selfish. Putting him first, doing what he wanted. Making up for past regrets.
> 
> “You really think I’d do that to you again? I promise you, with all I have, I’m never walking out on you again,” he paused. “On us, again.” His speech was slower than usual, each word thought-out and chosen carefully. _Meant._ I was so used to him speaking quickly, particularly when in conversation with my father, as if in fear people would stop listening. Conscious of not sounding good enough, smart enough. That people didn’t care for what he had to say, so he’d get it out in one breath to save their concentration.
> 
> I nodded like I couldn’t do anything else. I inhaled deeply to stabilise my breathing and laughed to myself, shaking my head. “I’m sorry.”
> 
> “No, no.” He murmured, his lips inches from mine. His breath too was inconsistent, nervous. Sharing the same air.
> 
> His mouth was intertwined with mine, our movements synchronised like one being. I’d missed how it felt to taste him on my lips, to feel the heat from his body warm my own, to be held in his arms.
> 
> I interrupted him, his lips now kissing my chest. “I do want to… by the way.” My voice was breathless in the best way now, gasping with every touch as his mouth sucked hungrily across my collarbones.
> 
> He chuckled in between kisses, the sound tickled like a vibration against my skin. “I gathered as much.”
> 
> Gone was the tenderness, the taking our time, tracing one another as if taking snapshots to memorise when our time was up. Because like he’d said, he wasn’t going this time. Within seconds I’d gone from half-dressed and fearful to naked and safe. Whole.
> 
> He was on top of me, knowing what to do, where to be. His hands went from between my hair to between my thighs. It’d been decades and he still knew what to do, what drove me crazy. Moaning his name, my name, our names. Amongst the alien space that was New York, the new sheets, his body that had belonged to her for so long. All unfamiliar but I’d never felt more at home. More alive. 
> 
> We came within seconds of each other in simultaneous relief. He asked if he could do as he had the first time, hesitantly as if I’d have forgotten. _Please._ He left his mark across my chest, crying out and shaking against me. _Fuck._ Our bodies intertwined under the covers. Two men from two backgrounds, two countries but one being. Who attempted to live separate lives but returned home once life became too much to handle alone. Re-joined as one whole.
> 
> “Oliver.” He murmured his own name sleepily, addressing me with his own title for we had become something combined and interlaced. A smile played across his mouth. Eyes closed, his arms cradling me into his chest.
> 
> “Elio.” I replied with equal satisfaction, a yawn escaping my lips.
> 
> _I felt his heart beating against my own._
> 
>              
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> “
> 
>  


	3. Captain of My Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Not sure how to summarise this chapter, it's pretty long (spent all evening typing furiously, hehe) and ends on a cliff-hanger of sorts! Don't worry though, it's kind of a false-alarm and a happy ending is to come!  
> Also, the chapter title and lyrics are from Should Have Known Better by Sufjan Stevens (again), another one of my favourites. Oliver's dance-athon is to Love My Way by the Psychedelic Furs (a classic!), of course, as part of the CMBYN film soundtrack! :o)  
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! :) I'll post more very soon!

_I should have known better, to see what I could see._

_My black shroud, holding down my feelings._

_A pillar for my enemies._

** \- Sufjan Stevens - Should Have Known Better **

 

I woke before him but stayed still.

His whole being embodied absolute tranquillity. He looked vulnerable but in the most resilient way. Peaceful. His eyes shut without the slightest furrow of brow or tension of the forehead. He slept facing me, one arm hanging by his side and the other across the back of my pillow, as if subconsciously checking for my whereabouts. I woke up startled under bed-sheets that smelt fresh, but of a fragrance unknown to me. But turned over, saw him sleeping inches from my own naked body, and I was reminded that last night _did_ happen. What he said, what we did was real.

His hair, still of a golden sheen that only brightened in the summer’s presence. Having studied it in the morning light, I noticed the occasional, well-disguised grey hair which he so masterfully cloaked under hair-wax and a confident smile. No one would’ve noticed these signs of ageing. Seeing him before me yesterday as I’d arrived, was as if I’d been stuck in a permanent, photographed image of ’83. He looked no different to me. In fact, he looked… _improved._ Life hadn’t aged him, it’d sculpted him into a man of confidence, experience and charisma. Oh, how I thought he had enough of that when we’d first met. How much he’d intimidated me. But now, studying his face which was sunk comfortably into the pillow, he’d never looked so youthful.

            “You’re staring at me.” He said, with a smirk playing on his lips. His words caught me off-guard. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but it was as if he didn’t need to. He saw me. We saw each other.

            “Mm?” I murmured, as I tentatively stroked his hair, deliberately tracing his now more prominent hairline. All these signs of ageing, all these things my father had complained about, suited Oliver so well it was laughable. I smirked to myself, semi-audibly, to which his eyes opened.

            “What are you laughing at?” He said. _His voice, oh his voice._ It sounded carefree. He sounded content, harmonious. His eyes, without wish for the cliché, were sparkling. I gulped, blinked hurriedly to avoid the staring. _Again, the staring._

            “You look wonderful,” I murmured, but I wasn’t hesitant this time around. It was us, inches from each other. The same. Naked and intertwined in the early hours. My equal, my other half, beside me as I’d waited for. It didn’t feel real, no, too good to be true. But I saw it that not saying what I was thinking was wasteful. Not only had we spent two decades suppressing these feelings but avoiding the sharing of thoughts was pointless because _he’d know._ He could read me like an open book and it had never felt so comforting now I knew that didn’t make me vulnerable. It made me protected, for how I felt wasn’t a weakness because he felt the same. This time around there was no temporary, no pause or barrier we had to accept.

His smile was like a beacon, a light-house leading me to shore. I watched it develop from a subtle rise of his lips, to meeting his cheeks, to reaching his eyes. As if no one had complimented him like that. That, or he’d never believed them, for people had come into his life, expressed admiration of his talents, to prize something from him and left. I felt honoured. He pulled me into his chest, running his hands through my messy curls and delicately across my cheekbones. My heart felt bloated, it throbbed in my chest and it startled me just _how much_ I felt. My chest physically ached; not in pain but in completeness. I’d never felt so whole.

 Then his lips met mine. His kisses were strong, were **meant.** Pressing against my mouth in desperation, like he wanted to get closer and was frustrated to find we were the _closest_ , both physically and mentally, two people could be.

            “I love you,” his words breathed into my mouth, his tongue tracing my lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He repeated it, the words blurring together interchangeably, in line with the years we’d had apart doing the same. _For those years apart meant nothing, we’d felt those words across the ocean, my love._ He said the words repeatedly against my lips, intensely as if to prove a point, that he wasn’t afraid. That he’d never been so sure of something in his life.

            “I love you.”

\---

            The morning was spent in a hazy serenity. I came out the shower to find Oliver moving round the kitchen in time with music, which I soon realised was deliberately tailored to us. The last time I’d seen him dance to that very song was in Rome, our last evening together. I was blind-drunk, foolish and proved to have a weak tolerance to whisky. He was twenty-four, pissed and moved his hips in an embarrassing but equally impressive fashion.

 

 _Love my way,  it_ _’s a new road,_

_I follow where my mind goes._

 

            “You’re still into 80s' Brit-pop, I see?” I smirked, a towel wrapped around my waist, my wet hair dripping down my forehead. He’d dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and cargo shorts, frying eggs casually with one hand, his other holding an espresso cup. He'd humoured me in avoiding the hard-boiled type, clearly avoiding any competition with Mafalda. I glanced at the counter beside him to see another cup, steaming with freshly roasted coffee. He turned to face me, flicking the gas off aimlessly as he did so, as if everything was in time with the music. I shook my head, chuckling to myself.

            His eyes travelled down my body immediately, acknowledging the towel. How at home I’d made myself.

“Well of course,” he said, as if a matter of fact. “Nothing else could compare.” He smirked, leaving the eggs on the stove. He wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me into him. He smelt of home comforts, of breakfast in B on the patio, of Mafalda’s toast and marmalade. I moaned subtly in satisfaction as he kissed me quickly, before leaning over me to grab plates from the cupboard. A brief, casual kiss. One that felt like a greeting. It felt easy, like coming home after a long day at work. He tasted of toothpaste and the new day.

            “Not even Bach?” I smirked, playfully.  

            “Do you still play?” he asked with genuine interest, serving the eggs on toast in a speedy, effortless manner. Everything he did required no effort, he didn’t need to try. His movements were routinely in the kitchen, looking comfortable in this new space he called home. _Oliver’s kitchen. Oliver’s life, I so quickly felt at home in._

            “Occasionally,” I said, trying to disguise my disappointment with a shrug of my shoulders. “I don’t have a piano at my place, so only play when I visit my parents’ house. Mum insists I play for her, well, her and whoever is visiting, every time.”

            He looked up to meet my gaze, smiling. His eyes looked distant, in thought, perhaps reflecting on the last time he’d heard me play at my now parents’ house. Back then, I was a show-off, using the talent I had, that he didn’t, as some flirtatious effort. I remembered how he watched me, my fingers moving across the piano keys effortlessly, so conscious to impress him. _Is there anything you don’t know?_

            “That’s a shame,” he sounded pensive, contemplating something. I caught his eye, raising my eyebrow. We were now sat across from each other, the same positions as only last night, when the atmosphere felt so intense and uncertain. Now, we were drinking coffee and eating in so casual a manner, as if we’d done the very same for the last twenty years. _If only._

Finally, after my theatrical, dramatic eyebrow raise that I didn’t drop until he opened his mouth, he continued.

            “There’s a local bar, one of my favourites, that does an open-night style thing on Saturday nights. There’s also a piano.”

            I looked at him, wide-eyed. I hadn’t played any large audience since junior school, and that was during a school assembly where the focus remained on children singing, not the pianist that was there only as a backdrop. I dropped the conversation, for Saturday nights implied a conversation about time, about how long I was staying, coming to some kind of schedule, a plan of how to approach what we’d now gotten into. My flight home, back to Florence where I’d been teaching for the past six months, was in a couple of days. My eyes avoided his, as I continued eating. Thankfully, he wolfed his breakfast down in minutes and in sensing my discomfort squeezed my shoulder, before going to stack the dishwasher.

            “What do you fancy doing today then?” his voice was higher in pitch than I was used to, it sounded hopeful, excited. To show me around, to share my company in the knowledge that this was the first day of many where time was on our side, for now at least. Before I had chance to respond he’d left the room in what I assumed to use the bathroom or fetch his shoes.

            The sunlight welcomed me from the balcony windows, complimenting the apartment’s quietness. I understood why Oliver was enjoying living alone, for the apartment complex was silent. Peaceful. He could be himself, not living behind some façade or in a family home that was falling apart.

            Then, his phone vibrated from across me. I didn’t know what were my business to engage with. Would picking it up be interfering? Would he expect me to answer, in case it were something important?

 _Private number._ I swallowed a gulp of water, before my thumb hesitantly hovered over the accept button.

“Hello, Oliver’s phone,” I said, my voice surprising me in sounding confident and relaxed, as if I'd answered on his behalf regularly. His name rolled off my tongue like it were my own. I smiled to myself. I guess I’d had enough practice referring to myself with such words.

Silence, besides breathing at the end of the line. I was about to open my mouth again to repeat my greeting, but a woman’s voice cut me short.

“Elio, is that you?” The fact she knew my name, when I’d greeted her as a stranger, startled me.  Her voice was friendly and vaguely familiar. “It’s Anna.”

 _Anna. Of course, it was familiar._ Well-intentioned I’m sure, but her voice had always sounded theatrical, high-pitched… forced. The same voice that brought a knot to my stomach when he insisted I came for dinner at our last reunion, two years before. Every time she’d spoken had caused me to look up, to watch her, examine her, make sense of her character. Of her and him.

“I didn’t know you were in town, how long are you staying?” She continued, without giving me chance to say a word. I couldn’t read her, her voice sounded consistent in tone, confident and relaxed. As if she were a stranger calling, representing some company or trying to make the best impression.

“Hi,” I began, thinking that the best way to start. My eyes diverted to the doorway, and as if I’d summoned him, Oliver walked through with a broad smile. Which changed to a puzzled look when he’d recognised I was on the phone. On his phone.

“I’ll pass the phone over, I imagine you rang to talk to the man himself,” I tried to sound light-hearted, but it sounded forced. I didn’t have answers, I didn’t know how long I was staying, where we were going from here. What she knew, what she hadn’t been told. What he’d kept a secret, about us, about himself.

He’d always introduced me as just-Elio, the son of the Professor who he’d so fortunately stayed with all those years ago. But my body language, my discomfort in their home, my inability to keep my eyes off him, must’ve got her questioning things. She sensed how eager I was to head home that evening, that was certain.

He paused, looking at me wide-eyed in disbelief. “Anna,” Oliver said her name hesitantly, indicating they hadn’t spoken in a while.

I rolled my eyes, backing away to the table to scrape my left-overs into the trash, hurriedly. 

I wasn’t getting into this again, I’d sworn to myself as much.

If there were un-cut ties between them, I’d spent too many years waiting, hopeful, on the side. I’d gotten used to playing the spectator of the room, waiting in anticipation for him to give me a second-glance when others’ attention was elsewhere.


	4. With Your Shirt Tucked In and Your Shoes Untied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio confronts Oliver about Anna's call, and Oliver reassures him that there is nothing to worry about, blah de blah.  
> Um and my attempt at a sexy scene, again terrible, pls don't judge me.  
> Lyrics and chapter title is Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens :o)  
> Enjoy, guys and thanks for reading! More to come, of course!

 

 _All the glory that the Lord has made,_  
_and the complications you could do without._  
_When I kissed you on the mouth._

** \- Sufjan Stevens - Casimir Pulaski Day **

 

I was stood out on the sad-excuse for a balcony for approximately 3 minutes. I knew because I was counting to control my breathing, which has escalated out of both frustration and sadness.

The balcony, accessed by the doors ascending from the kitchen and lounge area, overlooked a shared garden area for the whole housing block.

“What are you doing out here?” he said from behind me. He was in the doorway, I knew this because the balcony was so small that for him to be stood next to me would’ve meant our shoulders touching. His voice sounded puzzled, he clearly hadn’t acknowledged what this  _issue_  was.  _We had a thing for balconies, you and I, trust you to move in somewhere with your own. You exhausted the one we shared, joining our bedrooms together in B, every night of your stay. I wish you’d confessed that sooner, so I could’ve joined you out there. I guess we now have our own. Well, you do at least._

I didn’t respond to his question, acting like I hadn’t heard him. Facing the view, fists clenched. He knew I was ignoring him, for we were in such an enclosed space that unless I’d become hard-of-hearing in my thirties, I was giving him what my Father had always termed ‘the silent treatment.’ Something my Mother often opted for in any disagreement between them.  _Actions speak louder than words, my boy._

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, and by this point the palm of his hand was placed delicately on my shoulder, as if to get my attention. Encourage me to turn around. His touch felt warm against my bare skin, generating goose-bumps like some inevitable response to his affection. I suddenly  _felt_  naked in front of him. Small and embarrassed to be half-dressed.

“If I said no, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Well, given that you’re addressing the plant pot right now…”

“What did she want?” My voice was sharp and aggressive. I sounded pissed off and hurt, like a jealous child wanting attention. Which was ridiculous given how short a time we’d reunited. I felt my cheeks burning up and my chest tightening. I’d arrived yesterday, and I already felt attached, as if my heart was ingrained in these very walls. His bed-sheets. His skin. To detach myself now felt inconceivable, regardless of how much practice I’d gained at doing so.

“That’s what this is about?” His hand now let go of my shoulder, as if guilty or that he didn’t deserve to touch me. “She called to fill me in on Jake’s college applications.”

I turned slowly to face him, his eyes looked at me intensely with sadness. As if to prove he had nothing to hide. He did look genuine. Oliver was Oliver and I knew the man better than he knew himself, regardless of the years missed and time lost. He didn’t lie about things, and had he done something he was ashamed of he’d eventually own up to the fact (although it did take him longer than most, choosing to bottle things up rather than accept and address his feelings.)

“Oh, I thought sh—” I began, before being cut short. Not by words but him pulling me into his chest, so quickly that I nearly tripped over the door-frame. I could feel his heart racing beneath his shirt, beating into my ear, as my head was buried into him, his arms bound tightly around my body which suddenly felt the chill of the changing weather. I twitched beneath his arms, my arms raised in goose-bumps which he recognised instantly. He smirked and pulled me inside, shutting the patio door behind us and grabbed a sweater which had retired in a heap on the sofa. As if some kind of emergency resource.

“I know, now, what you thought,” he said sympathetically, shaking his head. I pulled the sweater, slightly over-sized, over my head to be met with his eyes directly meeting my own. His lip turned upwards and he looked away, covering his face slightly by which I’d already noticed was slightly flushed.

“What?”

“It suits you, you look…” he struggled for the right word, circling his hand in the air melodramatically as if to prompt or conjure some solution. “I don’t know, I always struggle for the right words to describe you. Always have. No expression can do justice.”

I rolled my eyes. “Lame.” I scoffed, teasing him with a smug smile. By which his mouth dropped in bewilderment and reached to dig me in the ribs. We both fell on the sofa, mid-wrestle, in fits of laughter like two teenage boys before being told to behave by their mother.

“I know what you thought,” he repeated, pulling me into his chest as he played with my hair, wrapped the un-brushed, just-showered curls around his fingers. “It’s over, Elio. Anna and I, nothing would ever happen there again. Never would I want it to. I wouldn’t have told you how I felt, let _that_  all happen yesterday, to go and run back to my ex-wife.”

I looked up at him, examining the details of his face inches from my own. The blemishes, small pimples from where he’d cut himself shaving, or discolouration from too much sun (with a wife that never reminded him to apply sun-screen.) Oliver’s is the all-knowledge, no-logic type. I recalled my Mother reminding him to apply sun-screen way back in ’83, when we’d spend hours laying by the pool in blissful silence, with the occasional comment made about the books we were reading.

“Let what happen, yesterday?” I murmured, in attempted flirtation. My fingers lightly traced his jaw-line, each finger tapping individually as if I were playing piano.

“Well, admitting my  _un-dying_  love for you,” he began, enunciating the last few words over-dramatically, as if in pain, whilst scrunching up his face. I rolled my eyes, by which he met my gaze with a smirk. “Then fucking you senseless until 2am.”

That caught me by surprise. The man never failed to catch me off-guard by how swiftly he could change his tone. How within seconds he’d turn from eloquent vocabulary and charisma, to language and actions that made me catch my breath. It sounded alien coming from a mouth that spoke so articulately, so proudly to scholars and high-brow folk. I think that’s what was all the more appealing, more intense, was watching him in a room of people, so respectable and admired, and knowing how foul-mouthed he could be, would be, the second we had a moment to ourselves. That so many desired him and could never imagine this alter-ego that spouted from his lips when the time was right.

“Oh really? I like to think it was a… joint-effort.” I muttered, his mouth now an inch from my own. I felt his breath against my lips, quickening in anticipation.

“Are you sure about that? From what I remember, it was  _you_  begging  _me._ ”

In that moment I had become distinctly aware of the towel still wrapped around my waist, by which he too followed my eye-line. I pulled  _his_  jumper over my head, throwing it across the room carelessly. Within seconds his hands were cupping my torso, pulling me on top of him so effortlessly, my weight being no obstacle as if I were entirely under his possession. Although similar in height, Oliver was bigger-boned and could easily hold me in his grasp, which worked to his advantage. I felt dominated, submissive and  _wanted._  His tongue lapped at the nape of my neck, his eyes now staring up at me, hungrily, as his lips moved down towards my collar-bones. He still hadn’t shut his eyes, his point-of-focus watched me intently, anticipating my reaction as I writhed; unable gain any sort of composure. Our eyes didn’t shift from one another, him sucking at my skin as if to scar it permanently, like gifted tattoos; designs he’d spent the past two decades perfecting.

“I, I –” I began, short of breath and squirming, by which I sensed him smiling against my skin, enjoying my response.

“Mm?” he murmured.

“I thou-ght we were going out.” I managed to finish my sentence, by which I lifted his head up single-handedly, planting kisses across every inch of his face. His cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, every inch of him, I wanted to absorb.

He chuckled, running his hands through my hair. My own were pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“Off, off, off.” I insisted, pulling it, clumsily, over his head.

“Oh,” he sighed, dramatically. “I picked that out especially.”

I spluttered, pushing him back into the cushions with all the force I could master. He was hard beneath my crotch and I traced down his chest with a single finger towards the buttons of his shorts. Somehow, to my advantage, the towel had remained secure around my waist. Still on top of him, he looked up at me in anticipation, mouth slightly open, breathing inconsistently. His hands which were supporting me up-right, had moved from around my torso to the knot I’d managed to succeed in tying so securely. Instead of untying it immediately, he slipped his hands slowly up my thighs, tracing upwards.

“Tease.” I mumbled, struggling to form anything other than one-syllable utterances.

He stopped, his hand resting on my inner thigh. I moaned in desperation. “Please.” I mumbled.  _You’ll kill me if you stop._

“On one condition.” He murmured, his lips now resting just above the towel around my waist, kissing my stomach.

“Any-thi-ng.” I muttered, elongating the word into paused breaths. His hand was stroking my inner-thigh just inches away, and  _that_  satisfied, all-knowing smile he flashed was some suitable metaphor or step-by-step process he’d always follow; code for  _you’re so hard._  If he didn’t continue I’d have cried out in some ridiculous desperation.  _Take me, Oliver, I’m yours._

He looked up at me, meeting my gaze of anticipation. My eyebrows furrowed impatiently, waiting for his ultimatum.

I waited. For him to untie the knot that was at that moment a form of obstruction and take me.

“… Don’t leave on Tuesday.”

 

            He let the towel drop to the floor behind me before I could verbalise any kind of response.

 

 


	5. Mystery of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> So sorry for the slow update, I've been so tied down with Uni work and been adding to this chapter here and there for the past week! I hope you enjoy it! It's very romantic and allows E & O to be public in their relationship for the first time. Which, in '83, they wouldn't have dreamed of as much as they'd wanted to.  
> And of course, what better chapter to include it than this; the chapter title and lyrics are Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens! :o)  
> Enjoy! :) More to come, I promise! <3

_Oh, to see without my eyes._  
_The first time that you kissed me._  
_Boundless by the time I cried,_  
_I built your walls around me._

**\- Sufjan Stevens - Mystery of Love**

 

He made love to me like any time before, but this time felt new. Celebratory and cathartic. Free from any concerns or worries, mostly on my part. In the lounge, the mid-day sun illuminated Oliver’s ash-blonde (with the grey tint he’d refuse to acknowledge) hair which was now sticking up in all directions. Fucking in daylight felt euphoric. We didn’t care who heard us and were the most exposed and _naked_ we could possibly be. Free from any duvet or barriers, free from conventional late-night routine sex that was meaningless to so many couples across New York City.

We spent another hour in each other’s arms, him lying on top of me with his head resting on my chest. I felt his lips widen in a broad smile against my ribs, flicking between kisses and a content smile that had made a permanent home across his mouth ever since I’d arrived. I began to run my fingers through his hair, twisting it around my fingers, planting kisses on his forehead. But stopped, laughing to myself when I realised my fingers were _sticky_.

“What?” he asked contently, eyes shut. He looked angelic. Any tension of the forehead had completely subsided; dark circles under his eyes had faded. He looked well-rested, content. I kissed his eyelids and his eyelashes tickled my lips.

“Um, nothing,” I smirked, unable to meet his gaze without bursting into hysterical laughter.

He raised his head in sudden realisation, wide-eyed. “Is that lube or come?”

I laughed hard, tipping my head back on to the sofa’s headrest. My stomach ached from laughing so much. Oliver looked at me with bemusement, whilst trying to appear serious and unamused. He shook his head in a dramatic fashion, tutting at me. _Professor Oliver, not to be messed with._

“Well?” he continued, poking me in the ribs. I squirmed, twisting my torso away from him before my attempt backfired; surrendering to the acknowledgment that his weight on top of me had left me trapped. I howled in laughter as he tickled under my armpits.

“I…” I laughed hysterically, moving my wet palm towards him, which he dodged in disgust. “I honestly have no idea at this point.”

 “You do know I showered this morning!”

“So did I!” I protested, unable to keep a straight-face. He looked at me like I’d offended him, shaking his head theatrically. I leaned in to taste his lips, to kiss the line of his mouth he had perfected with concentration; not a smirk in sight. I was impressed at the man’s ability, the muvi star with the hidden acting talent.

“Well, looks like we both need to shower.” He said, eyebrows raised suggestively.

“I won’t say no to that,” I attempted a look of severity, in effort to cover-up just how overwhelmed I felt. The affect he had on me, in looking at me like _that_ with such ferocious desire and hunger. But my beaming smile was released within seconds.

“On the condition you make it up to me,” he said, rising from the sofa and pulling me up with him. “You’ve really misbehaved here.” How he was managing to keep a straight face both baffled and turned me on.

My cheeks flushed. I looked at him, _my Adonis._   His eyes staring at me with deliberate intensity.

“Yes, sir.”

\---

 

We eventually made it outside mid-afternoon, the blazing sun (no match on Italy, but appreciated all the same), felt like a physical epitome of just how full, how warm, I felt inside. We left his apartment and began to walk towards the square of cafes, half a mile away. Initially, we walked side-by-side, out of both habit and nervousness. Twenty years had passed of course, but in that time Oliver had lived his life in a heteronormative sphere of safety and disguise. But he surprised me in taking my hand and smirked to himself. Our fingers fitted effortlessly between each other’s as to halves of a whole. As if we’d been made to combine, tailored to each other’s bodies immaculately. I squeezed his hand, unable to prevent the grin that was playing across my lips. We were in a bubble, a comfortable sphere. Amidst the crowds of people, all I saw was him. Us. _Home._ What we’d have given to have done this, such a simple action that so many would see as a given, all those years ago. I was expecting to feel shame, or anticipate a comment or stare to be given by a stranger. But all I felt was pride and all I saw was him.

I looked up with glazed eyes, suppressed tears. His eyes met mine as we walked. We didn’t need to say anything, speak aloud, for all that needed to be said was projected by this simple gesture that so many took for granted, but to us felt like a new beginning.

We dined at a restaurant, one of Oliver’s new favourites. Having only moved to the area six months before, I experienced such relief, such gratitude, in knowing he hadn’t been here with Anna. That this place was his alone, the new Oliver who had accepted who he was after decades of self-loathing. That newness, that contentment was brought to surface level by the glow in his eyes and an improved, genuine confidence. Confidence in himself rather than confidence in the façade he had pulled off for so long. We sat across from each other, a table-for-two, a couple’s setting. I met his gaze, both of our expressions – a mirror’s image. I got up to use the bathroom and returned to find the waiter wanting to take our order.

“I’ll have the egg’s benedict,” Oliver said casually as he folded his menu back up, as if talking to a friend. The waiter smiled at him, nodding with acknowledgement as if all that were missing was an ‘of course.’ I panicked, my eyes darting across the menu, trying to make sense of the different sections which were categorised by types of cuisine.

I looked up at him, trying to grab his attention in need of assistance.

“And my partner will have the same, please,” he said, matter-of-factly. The words passed his lips like they had been said so many times before. I let out an almost-inaudible gasp and felt my cheeks reddening.

            The man nodded and left us to it.

            Oliver looked at me, the table taking up the room I wanted to invade. I wanted to be sat beside him at least. Hear his breathing, rest my head on his shoulder. Make use of all these opportunities that were now available to us. I then reminded myself we weren’t pushed for time anymore; the clock was on our side. That was, if I didn’t leave Tuesday, that is.

            “… Partner?” I managed, before my grin had taken hold and I couldn’t say anything more.

“Well,” he began, with a smirk playing on his lips. I hadn’t realised how far my arm was stretched across the table, as if it were some involuntary action that naturally occurred when we were a metre apart. “It was that or boyfriend.”

“So, we’re official, are we?” I asked, eyebrows raised theatrically. He chuckled and pushed his hair back off, removing his sunglasses off his head. He took my hand and began running his fingers delicately across my palm. I couldn’t avoid my eyes diverting across the room out of habit. As if we were back in B, twenty-one years before and couldn’t even touch without panic overtaking anything else. Fear of comments that would be made, stares, or worse.

            Oliver didn’t detect my sarcasm initially, he looked… hurt? I chuckled in reassurance and squeezed his hand before picking it up to kiss it. It was warm against my lips. The man’s character radiated warmth, compassion, heat that felt like coming home.

            “Well, I was hoping so at least,” he said, taking a sip of water which the waiter had poured just minutes before. _My partner._

            “If so, when would our anniversary be?” I smirked, before the grin returned to my face. My jaw was beginning to ache, all this smiling in the space of a couple of days. I wasn’t used to feeling this way. So carefree, so whole.

            Oliver pursed his lips as if in deep-thought.

            “Well, that’s a tricky one,” he began, his foot now touching mine underneath the table. Both of us had sandals on, it was too hot for the pristine _Converse_ I was yet to break-in. His foot, which he had slipped out of the shoe, hovered on top of my own. My eyes turned to the table, unable to meet his gaze. He still made me nervous, but in the best way. _Was giddy the word?_

            “Because if we said summer of ’83, I would’ve been having an affair for twenty-odd years,” he winked at me. I smiled, hoping it looked genuine. The fact was it was sad, my heart twinged in the reminder that we’d lost out on so much time. “But, emotionally, I’ve been in love with you all that time.”

            Now I met his gaze, looking up suddenly. His eyes looked glazed, I couldn’t tell if it was the sunlight straining them or if he’d teared up in admitting so much. I squeezed his hand tightly, fearful that perhaps I’d wake up any second, back in my single bed in my Florence apartment. My heart felt so full, an emotion so hard to describe. Bursting. Like something had felt incomplete all this time and I’d finally sought out the segment that had been astray.

            Our food was brought to us. Oliver had made a great choice. Not only was it delicious, but I felt content in the knowledge that this was his usual order and now I was tasting it too. It was like living his new life, experiencing everything as he had. Walking the streets he now walked every day, tasting the food at restaurants he now called favourites, greeting neighbours that he acknowledged every morning.

            He kicked my leg to get my attention after my thoughts had been wandering for some time. This had become some kind of in-joke, flirtatious act as if to say _‘oi, you, I’m right here.’_

            “How about… soulmates?”

            He smiled at me broadly, his whole face lit up like a candle that had sparked in ignition. He shook his head slightly in disbelief, grinning at me like the smile was permanently engrained across his face and couldn’t be altered. Shaking his head in disbelief, like everything was too good to be true. But it was. This was the new truth, the new beginning and I felt lucky but worthy too. Worthy because we’d waited, in the belief that we’d never have this. And here we were.

            “Well yes, that couldn’t be more true. But, I’m not sure I could introduce you as that to a waiter…”

            I scoffed and kicked his leg hard. We chuckled simultaneously and had the table not been there I would’ve grabbed his face in my hands and kissed him more than I’d ever wanted to in my life.

But we had tomorrow and every day after. And I wasn’t afraid of kissing him in public from now on, that was certain.

We’d never felt more fearless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. My Tongue on Your Chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> I hope this is okay, I find myself writing and writing and then bam it's a few thousand words and I'm like how??? I wish I could say the same for Uni essays, dammit ;o)  
> Either way, this chapter is a mixture of emotions! Sadness then happiness. Their happy ending is coming, trust me! That's why I'm writing this, to give them the life they both deserve. :)!  
> I hope you enjoy, your comments (and kudos!) make me so happy, so please do keep them coming! More to come! <3  
> The chapter title and lyrics are Sufjan Stevens' John, My Beloved. (I'm running out of favourite Sufjan songs now!)

_So can we pretend sweetly,_  
_before the mystery ends?_  
_I am a man with a heart that offends,_  
_with its lonely and greedy demands._

**Sufjan Stevens - John, My Beloved**

I was supposed to be leaving tomorrow and neither of us had brought up the prospect of it _actually happening_. I didn’t anticipate any of this, if anything I thought my visit would have come to an end sooner. I thought the whole thing would’ve been too painful to pursue for longer than 24 hours. That I would’ve made a fool of myself in the knowledge he was single, and he no longer wanted me. But the reality was more than I could’ve imagined. Which, as exhilarating and overwhelming it all was, the problems it had caused were just as hard-hitting.

            The mattress sunk underneath our weight, as if it were constructed to fit the shape of our bodies, of our bodies together. As if Oliver’s bed had always missed something, and now I’d become immersed in his apartment, his life, and even inanimate objects were finding ways to postpone my goodbye. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes fanned out; painting a shadow across his cheekbones as product of the evening sunlight that cast across the room through the blinds. He looked… magnificent. I was playing with his hair, twirling it around my fingers. It felt rougher than the hair that tickled my cheeks in B. I couldn’t distinguish whether it was the difference in water, or age that had contributed to the change in texture that brushed my finger-tips.

            Oliver was only needed at the University part-time at the moment, both because classes were infrequent because of students studying for upcoming Finals, and he was Head of Department so could waltz in and out when he wanted. He was an excellent professor. Perhaps I was bias, having never seen him lecture or hold a class, but his charisma and the passion for his subject was extraordinary. My father noted as much all those years ago, knew that Oliver was a rarity in their field. His eyes lit up whenever someone asked him about his subject, so much so that when the topic changed a look of disappointment emerged across his face briefly. _Of course, only I picked up on that._

            “When are you next in work?” I asked, my finger-tips stroking his forehead to which his dimples rose in response. He looked blissful and I realised immediately that mentioning work could corrupt his peacefulness. I felt guilty. Before I had chance to shrug it off and soothe him, his brow had already furrowed. He cut in before I had chance to change the subject.  

            “It’s supposed to be tomorrow, unfortunately," He opened his eyes and lent on his elbows to sit up into the head-board. “But in all honesty, I could work from home once I’ve taken you to the airport.” He said this with his eyes to the duvet, unable to meet my own. I sat up, mirroring his position and took his face in my hands to which he cupped his cheek into my palm, closing his eyes.

 _How were we going to do this?_ If this was really happening. The last time around, whereby Oliver wasn’t married, was twenty four and flying back to the States was an instant cut-off. That was that, we were finished. But this was different. New. Were we going to do what those movies romanticise as a long-distance romance? I doubted as much. I’d been without him for twenty years. I couldn’t pretend that being apart for an unspecified amount of time, trying to keep communication going whilst feeling sick to the stomach with craving him by my side, would be doable. Sure, I’d considered it. Back in ’83, I’d craved the courage to suggest it to him. That he come back at Christmas, that _we_ could _work_ , talk every day, write letters every week, count down the days until our next reunion. But that would’ve been immature and overly ambitious. He was in his last years of college, I was in a small Italian town, still living with my parents. I never brought up that prospect because back then I ran the risk of him laughing in my face. I didn’t know it meant as much to him, the same to him, as what our then _summer romance_ did to me.

And I couldn’t bear the idea of being apart ever again. We’d done too many years of that. Time was supposed to be on our side.

I stared at him, my vision becoming glazed and his image becoming blurred. Tears ran down my cheek too quickly. Usually, I'd try and prevent them; acknowledge the lump in my throat and swallow heavily to cover it up. 

            “I can’t.”

He looked up from the duvet, and in a moment of panic and desperation grabbed my shoulders, pulling me into his chest. He smelt of sun-cream from our afternoon out, and his cologne. Musky and… Oliver. He smelt like Oliver. He smelt like comfort and wholeness. A feeling which hit my gut and ached all the years he’d been absent.

            “You’re welcome to stay all the time you like.”

            “I’ve already booked my return, it’s only valid tomorrow,” I murmured against his chest. My speech was raspy, and I felt tired. I felt tired of the obstacles, the reasons why we had to bid farewell. It was tiresome and felt like routine now. There was always something holding us back.

            “Well, I’m more than happy to buy another one, a different date, so we have longer.”

            “I can’t ask that of you,” I said, looking up to meet his gaze; his eyes looked intense and anxious, his lip was quivering. “I also have work to think about.”

            We had hardly spoken about our work since I’d been here. It would’ve put a dampener on everything, seen as something to burst our bubble. Sure, Oliver asked if I enjoyed my job, tutoring Classics at an Academy and piano lessons for students. But we didn’t delve into it, complain about our circumstances; our supposed mid-life crisis. Our inevitable ageing. Me being here felt like some escape; a bubble, away from reality and responsibilities. We deserved that much. Regardless of the date I left, the goodbye would be unbearable all the same. Changing it to a few days time would only push it away, to the back of our minds. A temporary fix.

            “Well, how about I take some time off?”

            I looked up at him, wide-eyed, as if he’d just told me it was a relative’s birthday and I’d forgotten. It seemed like some kind of miracle.

            “You… you could do that?”

            He rolled his eyes dramatically, whilst a smile played on his lips.  “Duh, I’m Head of Department, you know,” he winked and shoved me lightly on the shoulder, before pulling me back in his embrace. “I never booked my remaining Annual Leave; Anna and I never took a family vacation this year. Thankfully.” He chuckled.

            “So,” he continued before I had chance to respond. “Why don’t I come with you?”

            I didn’t know how to react. Within seconds I’d gone from crying to being told that actually, things were working in our favour. I held him tightly against me, my hands squeezing his biceps, perhaps too tightly, my lips pressed against his chest. “Please,” I murmured, in between kisses. I kissed all over his chest in desperation, as if to persuade him, to ensure he didn’t change his mind. “Please, please, please.”

            “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips resting against my hair which was stuck out in all directions from lying down just minutes before, and the heat. Him calling me that, so effortlessly, without thinking twice about it, was enough to make me cry. My heart felt so whole, it felt _too much_. Too much to be true. Now, the name of affection left his lips without hesitation. He was done trying to please others. Done suppressing himself, suppressing _us._  

“You don’t need to try and convince me to. I’ve been wanting to go back to Crema for decades, man, the thought of it is enough to make my heart twinge.” The phrase sounded cliché but the way he delivered them, the look of sadness, couldn’t have been more genuine.

            “It wouldn’t be B, unless we took a de-tour,” I murmured against his lips, which he’d pressed against my own lightly to interrupt my otherwise incoherent exclamations of ‘are you sure?’ He pressed his thumbs into my shoulder blades in attempt to relieve the tension I’d built up. Clearly working as a reminder that just minutes before I’d been panicking, tears across my cheeks. “I’m living in Florence during the week and then get the fucking long train back up to Crema to visit my Mum.”

            He nodded, stroking my lips with his fingertips, willing me to continue.

            “Mostly out of habit in all honesty, I know she’s fine. She tells me I don’t have to visit as often but I’d feel guilty if I didn’t,” I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “She’s with someone new, she’s happy, I know. But I guess I don’t want to live with the regret that I didn’t spend enough time with her.”

            “I know all about living with regret,” he muttered. His tone was one of severity, but he tried to cover it up with a smirk, rolling his eyes to divert his eye contact. I cupped his cheek, turning his face to meet mine and gave him a hopeful smile.

            “Hey, enough of that, Pro,” I said, attempting the tone he’d used yesterday in effort to sound in control and dominating. “You don’t have to anymore. Look at us. Look what we have.” I couldn’t hold back the smile, _again._ As if rehearsed, we shook our heads in disbelief. He grabbed my head with both hands and pulled me forward to meet his mouth. His tongue intertwined with mine, so effortlessly. His lips, warm and tangled with my own, fluently like two halves recombined. His kisses still had the ability to make me feel light-headed.

            “I’m so glad to hear your Mother is well,” he murmured, breaking our lips apart to which my brow furrowed, and I resisted a sigh. “I hope she doesn’t think badly of me.”

            I looked at him wide-eyed in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? Half the time I had a bit of a complex she loved you more than me.” I smirked, rolling my eyes to which Oliver threw his head back, chuckling. _Ah! Muvi-star, Oliver. Isn’t he magnificent?_

            “Anyway,” he exclaimed, his tone now back to his charismatic, charming, Oliver self. He reached across me to grab his phone. “What time flight did you book?”

            I grinned at him to which he looked at me, grinning back. The smile met his eyes, accentuating the light wrinkles which had been painted above his cheekbones. He looked radiant in the evening light. “I think it’s 12:10 to Milan. From there I would’ve got the train down to Florence.”

            “But we could de-tour to B?” he grinned, looking like an excited child. I was close to bursting, my heart felt so full. It was overwhelming. Our second chance. _I love you, Oliver. I am so in love with you._

            “I’ll have to let the Academy know, but my contract is flexible anyway. I teach at different institutions around the area. I doubt they’ll mind.” I grinned, grabbing my phone in the realisation of just how little time we had. I could sense his eyes on me, observing me with pride. Both of us teaching what we loved. 

We’d never been this spontaneous, always tied down by commitments and time passing before we’d acknowledged it. But this time we were travelling together. For good. It felt like the trip we took to Roma all those years ago, but without the uncertainty of what was to come. Because this time around we knew what was to come. That regardless of any obstacle or concern, we had each other and that was more than enough.

            “All booked.”

            Before he’d even had chance to place his phone back on the bed-side counter, I pulled him across the bed into my embrace. Our lips merged as one. Our bodies pressed against one another. We couldn’t be any closer in a physical sense, but it never felt _enough._ Two souls, one whole.

            “I love you,” I murmured against his lips, pressing my own against them in desperation, an overwhelming disbelief that this was real, and simultaneous passion to have him everywhere. He was here, in my arms and it wasn’t temporary. My person. “I love you, God, I love you.”

He traced down the side of my face so delicately, as if he were afraid he’d ruin some masterpiece in front of him, from my temple to my chin. He murmured the same words into my mouth.

 

            “Make love to me.” 

           


	7. The Greatest Gift of All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's scared of flying which Elio finds most endearing. The two take their first flight together, back to Italy, back to B, to the location where they first laid eyes on each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so much for coming back to read! Sorry I haven't posted for a few days, everything's been busy over Easter weekend! I hope this chapter is okay, I know not as much happens but hopefully it satisfies your expectations :)  
> The chapter title and lyrics are from Sufjan Stevens' 'The Greatest Gift' :)  
> Get ready for Crema/B magic and romance, the return of Annella and Mafalda, and new original characters. Ooh, and returning to some familiar places which are essential to the Elio and Oliver story :)  
> Thank you for reading, enjoy! <3 Until next time :o)

_Is to love your friends and lovers,_  
_to lay down your life for your brothers._  
_As you abide in peace,_  
_so will your delight increase._

**-  Sufjan Stevens - The Greatest Gift**

 

I was undecided as to whether I should let my Mother know of our visit. If it were up to me alone I would’ve kept it a surprise, she was expecting me the approaching weekend and knew of my visit to New York this weekend gone. But she liked to plan ahead, that and had Oliver and I arrived at the doorstep unexpectedly, Mafalda would’ve freaked. _What do I cook? Ultimo minuto! Elio, you should’ve let me know! Porco miseria!_

Oliver and I arrived at JFK airport late morning. Our first flight together. Our first trip whereby we could hold hands everywhere and not just on the back-seat of the mini-bus to Roma. I was buzzing, my stomach was in flips. I wasn’t a nervous flyer, but little did I know, Oliver _was._ I found this endearing and in attempts to calm him down, couldn’t help but smile that over two decades of knowing him I still found out new things about the man I knew so well. He kept checking every couple of minutes, as if in a routine. The updates board, his watch, the pockets of his jacket. I squeezed his hand.

            “Amore mio,” I whispered inches from his ear. We were sat on a bench in the waiting lounge and he was tapping his fingers against his thigh. My Italian caught him off guard, his breath quickened from the in-out rhythm he was attempting in effort to calm him down. He wasn’t used to the language around here, clearly, and he’d always said me speaking my mother-tongue was both comforting and… _a turn-on._ At this point I wasn’t sure what I was going for but getting him to look at me instead of scanning the lounge for _danger_ was a plus. “Breathe. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

            He squeezed my hand and planted a quick kiss on my neck. I still felt bewildered how comfortable we were in public, how comfortable he was in himself. I wanted to shout from the rooftops, _I love this man, fuck you who have a problem with that!_ I wanted to kiss him in front of any conservative bigots _(like his parents),_ make a point of what we feared for so long. What kept us apart.

            I chuckled to myself whilst stroking my thumb against his. “How on earth did you manage to fly over to B in the first place?”

            His voice was shaky, and I was trying my best to take him seriously, but he looked… _adorable._ I wasn’t used to this anxious Oliver, he was always so sure of everything, self-aware and comfortable in his surroundings. I couldn’t help but find his nerves strangely comforting. That there was something that broke the seamless, level-headed person he always maintained. It made him more human, when all I’d ever known was this miracle man that both amazed and (sometimes) frustrated me. I was the over-emotional, over-thinking one. For once there was something that contested the nonchalant exterior he’d crafted so well all these years.

            “I was twenty-four and reckless.” He muttered almost-irritably. At least I’d got him to sit down these past fifteen minutes. Beforehand, he’d been pacing back and forth in front of me. He hadn’t eaten breakfast and he’d been to the bathroom three times in the past half-hour just in case the plane didn’t have toilets. I’d told him I guaranteed _all_ planes have toilets, to which he snapped _‘but what if this one is some anomaly and I piss myself?’_ I was finding the whole thing quite amusing whilst simultaneously trying to calm him down.

            “Reckless… you were twenty-four and off to do a research placement with the scholar that was my Father. I wouldn’t call that _reckless_ , my darling.” I couldn’t restrain my laughter and he scowled at me dramatically, which only made me laugh harder.

            “I’d never left the US before then!”

            I pulled him against me tightly. Thankfully the bench wasn’t separated by those irritating bars to indicate separate seats. I slouched back into the seat (hard and jarring against my back but I resisted any fuss) so he could rest his head against my chest; my shoulders hunched forward so I could kiss his forehead as I played with his hair delicately against my fingertips. I realised shortly that what he needed was reassurance, _not sarcasm._ As much as the whole thing was very amusing and satisfying to see that the man I thought was always self-assured, had a weak spot for flying. Of course, Oliver wasn’t emotionless in the slightest, in fact he had the balance perfectly between confidence and charismatic, whilst being empathetic and warm-hearted. I was falling in love with him all over again just in the knowledge that of seeing _him_ scared of something. And that something was an activity I was so used to and didn’t phase me in the slightest. It was reassuring that I could be the one to guide the whole thing, to be the expert in travelling, to have him follow me when he was often so comfortable in his surroundings.

I figured I’d ring my Mother once we’d landed in Milan, which would give her a few hours to prep (more so Mafalda than herself), with not too much time to panic about having guests. My hopes were the two of them would be excited more than anything, but they were bound to have questions. Both about my visit to New York, and now Oliver’s spontaneous visit to B. Times like these, I missed my Father more than words could do justice. As much as my Mother was still in good health, and happiness had found her again, there was an emptiness in the family home without my Father’s booming laughter and a now-desolate study room which was once his haven.

The flight from JFK to Milan is just under nine hours. I regretted picking a mid-day flight, but it was cost-effective, and I didn’t think I’d have a travel partner. But I was also excited about the prospect of being sat beside Oliver, doing _nothing._ We were forever trying to fill the time with plans; him showing me landmarks, going for dinner. Not wasting a second of our time together. But for the first time, we had to pass the time, time which was classed as boredom by the majority. We’d watch films, my head on his shoulder. We’d share snacks, we’d nap with the sun peeking through the shutters. I’d never been more excited for a long flight in my life.

We boarded the plane. Oliver’s complexion, pasty and on the verge of sickness before we’d even taken off. I squeezed his hand. We were returning to B, the location our relationship so unexpectedly surfaced. We were returning to the beginning again, rewriting memories which were both so treasured but simultaneously so painful in places. I was returning home, with my _home._

 

\---

“Elio, darling! Ça va, mon cherie?” my Mother’s eloquent, harmonious voice exclaimed down the phone. We’d just arrived in Milan, and I was already wallowing in the effects of the time difference. We arrived in the early evening after the long flight, spent watching a couple of animation movies. Oliver just about survived the turbulence, and surprisingly enjoyed being up in the air once the plane stayed… consistent. Now, I was mouthing ‘shush!’ at Oliver, as he was laughing to himself. He already looked content from the B&B we’d crashed at alone. He survived on little sleep as it was, and over the years it seemed he’d become accustomed to running on caffeine and crash-naps. It humoured me how different this was from the twenty-four year old tourist who crashed on my bed from jet-lag as soon as he’d arrived, all those years ago.

“I’m well thank you, Mamma,” I said, staring at the departures board above our heads, triple-checking we had the right platform. We’d arrived to the train station in plenty of time, which was a rarity for me. Usually I was racing to the platform with seconds to spare. “I have a surprise of sorts to tell you.”

“A surprise?” she asked, sounding distracted. I could hear Mafalda’s muffled voice in the background and the kettle boiling.

“Mm,” I murmured, a smile playing on my face. Oliver’s face was inches from the phone and he was pulling faces at me in effort to make me laugh, to ruin the suspense.

“Well, you telling me, mon cherie, surely ruins this surprise,” she replied, before muttering something inaudible to Mafalda.

“Well, to cut to the chase, Mamma, your _second_ favourite man is coming to visit…” I said, a grin now playing on my lips. I winked at Oliver in front of me. He was sporting a pale blue loose-fitting shirt, practically a double of Billowy, and his sunglasses. He looked perfect.

“Second?” she muttered, not quite paying attention. I could hear Mafalda shouting from a distance now, as if she’d walked out towards the garden, ‘Annella!’

“Mm,” I readjusted my backpack, clutching the handle of my suitcase. “In fact,” I smiled, admiring my company, both in disbelief and gratitude. “He’s with me right now.”

I heard her gasp. “ _Oliver_?” she asked, her voice elated and his name falling from her lips in her French accent, regardless of the English name. I could sense her broad smile through the phone, which obviously came with a ton of questions she was mentally preparing for my arrival. “Oh my goodness, what wonderful news!”

I was beaming. The train arrived. I balanced the phone on my shoulder-blade, clutching Oliver’s arm with one hand, pulling my case with the other. We made it to our seats, Oliver lifting both our cases to the compartments above our heads so I could focus on my Mother’s excited rambles. ‘What time are you arriving?’ ‘I hope he’s being a good boy, mon cherie, and you’re not going to get hurt again…’ ‘Have you eaten lunch, shall we eat late, together?’

            “You too, Mamma, see you soon, au revoir, et toi, et toi!”

I turned to Oliver who was admiring the view of the Italian countryside now outside our window. I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair, by which he turned to face me with wide-eyes.

            “I can’t believe we’re here,” he murmured, tracing the edge of my face delicately, bringing goose-bumps to the surface.

            I was beaming. The sun’s rays had brought his otherwise disguised freckles to their full potential, dotted across his cheeks. His sunglasses were now balancing on his head, his long eyelashes left a light shadow across his cheekbones from the mid-day sunlight.

            Only an hour to go to Crema. I’d taken this train countless times before. But it was the first time my heart felt this full, as if it were to burst from how much I was feeling. I squeezed Oliver’s hand so tightly, in fear that I’d wake up from some sick dream, or he’d disappear right infront of my eyes. But there he sat, watching the world pass us by from the passenger seat. My explorer.

            “It’s funny,” he turned to me with a broad smile and took a swig of water before continuing.

“How somewhere you didn’t grow up in, somewhere you probably had never heard of as a kid… can feel like coming home.”

            I clasped his face in both hands, tracing his bottom lip lightly with my index finger. I kissed him hard, right there in front of the other passengers, regardless of whether they were doing their own thing or decided to watch two strangers instead. I couldn’t care less. My lips merged with his which, as always, brought a flipping, bustling motion to my stomach.

            I released his mouth from my own, much to my difficulty, and we smiled at each other in unison.

 

_“Home.”_

 

 

 


	8. Get Enough Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I thought I'd try something a bit different and bring Oliver's perspective into the mix, which felt surprisingly (more) different to write than I'd expected! Also, I'm still pretty new to writing sex scenes so getting what's in my head onto the page is tricky, haha! I hope it does it justice and is what you're hoping for etc! Enjoy! <3

_Did you get enough love, my little dove, why do you cry?_  
_And I'm sorry I left, but it was for the best,_  
_Though it never felt right._  
_My little Versailles._

**\- Sufjan Stevens - Fourth of July**

 

**_Oliver_ **

 

Pulling into the driveway felt like a dream sequence. Which, had I dreamt it previously, would’ve sent sickness to my stomach. An unfair, sickening longing of _if only it were real._ I squeezed his hand, smooth from the sunscreen he’d recently applied, to challenge that feeling of dissociation. This was real. I was in B, just as before. Only so _so_ much better.

I hadn’t experienced two emotions, otherwise distinct opposites, so heavily intertwined before. Sickening nervousness and overwhelming excitement. It had been years. But everything looked exactly as I remembered. _I mean, I remember that summer better than what I did last week._ As the car pulls into the driveway, as if rehearsed, a woman steps out from the large front doors. Arms raised enthusiastically, with a broad mesmerising smile crowding her face. Annella had aged incredibly well. The only noticeable difference in the past two decades is her walking pace, which is slightly slowed which Elio explained to be her hip replacement from a few years’ back which still plays her up unpredictably. The Italian countryside lifestyle is clearly the ideal. Her skin, although inevitably creased near the eyes, remained a glowing fullness. She looked healthy and happy. Elio practically jumped out of the vehicle, to which I chuckled, rolling my eyes and paid the driver.

“Mamma!” he beamed, wrapping his arms in a tight embrace around his Mother. Elio’s relationship with his parents was beautiful.  Annella looked at him like he was the sun greeting her when she opened the curtains in the morning.

“Mon cherie,” she murmured into his curls. “How was your journey?”

She looked up, myself still stood metres away where the cab had dropped us off. She parted from her son and within seconds wrapped me in her embrace in a tight squeeze.

“ _Muvi star_ ,” she murmured with a huge smile across her face. “It’s so wonderful to see you, Oliver.”

“Likewise, Mrs P,” I beamed, tilting my head upwards to admire the house which looked identical besides new potted plants and a replacement bench on the grass out-front. The afternoon sun of Crema warmed my face in what felt like a greeting. _Welcome back, Oliver._

_\---_

 

After a three-course meal (Mafalda went over-board as always), a few glasses of wine (the best I’ve had in decades, of course) and endless catch-up chatter on the patio, we all said our goodnights.

Stepping back into what was, and still is known to be Elio’s room, was surreal. Nothing had been moved, it felt like a museum or memorial space to commemorate this particular space in time where we spent our early days together. I scanned the room in disbelief, blinking a few times both out of tiredness and reassurance that this was real. The only difference this time around was we wouldn’t be in separate rooms. I smirked at the two towels that were folded on the foot of both beds which had been pushed together for us. Mafalda was clearly more liberal than I’d realised. Elio raised his eyebrow at my reaction.

“The towels. It makes me laugh that we used to sneak around, absolutely petrified that someone would catch on! We used to double-check the place every time we left that two towels weren’t hung up in the same room.”

Elio sniggered, unpacking his backpack for his phone charger and placing a paperback he’d been reading during the flight on the bedside table. I never knew he was into war novels, but he said they were easy-reading and fairly mind numbing. Trust him to find death and guns light-hearted. He grew up on philosophy in fairness, so his holiday activities could be anything from lying in the sun… to reading murder thrillers.

“Has Mrs P quizzed you on our situation?” I asked, squeezing his hips from behind. He still has the frame of his seventeen-year-old self, only a bit more chest hair and stubble. I say a bit, because saying none makes him irritable and insistent that he _does have chest hair, thank you very much._ I tickle his ribs and kiss down the nape of his neck. To which the response I was hoping for, one of my favourite sounds arose from the depth of his throat. He moaned hungrily before spinning round to face me. He grabbed my face with both hands and pushed his lips to mine. His tongue worked its way down my neck as he simultaneously unfastened the buttons of my shirt. The man was a natural at this, every action was so effortless but equally so intentional. _We knew each other’s bodies as our own._ He didn’t answer my question, he didn’t need to. The comfort and satisfaction of being here with me was painted across his face like luminous yellow paintwork of the fields back home.

“I take it you’re not as tired from travelling as I thought,” I murmured with a smirk, tilting his head back up so I could kiss him again. He responded with a moan against my lips, slipping his fingers into the belt-loops of my shorts and guiding me across the room to our make-shift bed.

 “I want you to fuck me like you did the first time.”

An unintended growl was released from my mouth which made him grin, followed by a biting of my lip.

“Well, it won’t hurt quite like it did then,” I muttered, pushing him onto the mattress. I stood above him, teasingly, by which his arms were up in the air in effort to grab me.

“Ah ah, hey, patience.” I said in the same tone I use in the classroom, one that I know has the same effect on him that his Italian has on me.

Elio says very little in the bedroom, in that respect he has the same limited patience he had back then. He’s all hands, no words. Still stood at the edge of the bed, whereby his legs were wrapped around my own, he lifted his foot against my crotch. My body jolted. I was already embarrassingly hard, which he responded to with a smirk, now lying back all the more comfortably, his hands behind his head.

“If I fuck you like the first time, you’ll have to be quieter than you were at my place.” I muttered, unzipping his jeans.

“Not to worry, I guarantee ma mère turns her hearing aids off at night.” He muttered playfully, now concentrating on the buttons of my shirt. He sat back up to face me and lapped up my stomach with his tongue.

“I… I didn’t notice she wore them.” I muttered, short-of-breath as he began sucking my nipples. That was something Anna never knew was a turn-on of mine, it’s often seen to be a _woman-only_ area. But Elio knew, as he does with every inch of me. What leaves me shaking, writhing and screaming at his control. Within seconds our clothes were in a pile on the floor, our bodies intertwined as one.

Still stood at the edge of the bed, he was now lying on his front facing me, his head in line with my crotch. Now he was teasing me. His head lingered against my cock which was painfully hard to his enjoyment. His breath lingered against it, before his tongue lapped around the tip.

“Fuu-ck, take me in your fucking mouth,” I said sharply. But against my lustful exasperation, he was having none of it. He was in control and was enjoying every second of winding me up.

“My room, my rules,” he murmured, his eyes looking up at me. My hands were amongst his curls, pulling his head towards me in effort to keep him _there._ In seconds his lips were coated in pre-cum. He licked them with a smug, satisfied smile.

“Pretty baby,” I just-mastered the words before his mouth took me whole. He forever amazed me how he could master that so effortlessly without the slightest hesitation or rejection. Just as he’d established a rhythm, which worked as a synchronised routine between us; me thrusting into his mouth in desperation, he moved off. Leaving me stood there on the cusp, legs shaking, mouth hung open.

“Wha-what was that for?” I muttered, frustrated. I opened my eyes almost-disoriented.

“You can’t cum yet. Not until I say.” He smiled confidently, sitting up and lying back onto the pillows. He looked fucking perfect. The moonlight aligned with the freckles above his cheekbones faultlessly from between the blinds. His curls hung messily yet as if intentionally tousled.

My legs, still shaking, managed to lift my body onto the bed to align with his. The effect he had on me was laughable, I felt delicate and under his command, my whole body aching in anticipation of further instruction.

“Where do you want me?” I asked, awaiting further orders. His expression was inquisitive, twisting his lip and looking sideward in some theatrical deep-thought.

“Hmm,” he murmured, enjoying my look of uncertainty, lingering above him.

He reunited with my cock, taking it in his hand by which a high-pitched gasp escaped my lips, catching me off guard.

“Inside me.” He said, his tone matter-of-fact and direct, his fingers moving up and down my shaft _too_ slowly for my liking. His eyes playful, as if challenging me or persuading me was an issue. As if.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope Oliver's voice came across well! We'll be back to Elio next chapter, don't worry! :)


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